


Reverent

by PepperPrints



Series: Separate Ways [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Competence Kink, Fingerfucking, M/M, Married Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Service Top Din, Teasing, These are a lot of dirty tags for what's actually some very tender marital smut, no real powerplay warnings here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: Out of everything they planned and prepared for, there’s one risk that Din didn’t think to fold into his calculations: the fact that once he actually sees Luke fight, he finds himself sufficiently – maybe dangerously – distracted.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Luke Skywalker
Series: Separate Ways [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693738
Comments: 110
Kudos: 1932





	Reverent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlushyRobot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlushyRobot/gifts).



> This is a request for the wonderful PlushyRobot! I really appreciated the opportunity to write more for this universe. This was a very fun idea and I really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> If you're curious about requests, you can find me on tumblr as "mudhorns." :)

_“Next time something happens, I’m coming with you. I can help you, and I will help you, whether you agree to it or not.”_

From the moment he gives Luke his word, Din knows there’s an inevitability that he won’t be able to escape. It’s not that he doubts Luke’s abilities – not in the slightest – if his reputation didn’t say enough, he’s seen firsthand what Luke can do, and that’s when he’s deliberately holding back against his peers. Luke can hold his own; that’s never been a doubt.

What does linger in his mind, dark and full of dread, is the notion that even for all his strength and unnatural power, one day it may not be enough – and Din would be the one to blame. It’s too easy to recall how he sounded when Vizsla broke his hand, the echo of his voice rattling in Din’s skull, and the grim scars that crawl over Luke’s chest like the lightning that nearly took his life now lives under his skin.

But Din doesn’t voice that fear aloud, nor does he let it intervene the next time he calls a council as Mand’alor.

Absently, Din wonders if there’s still suspicion that follows Luke wherever he goes. Din knows he isn’t universally adored – no leader could be – and the fact that he’s married less than a week before bringing his husband into an intimate council likely adds plenty of fuel to any pre-existing scorn against his rule.

Let them. It isn’t like their people to deal in whispers and quiet resentment; if someone is opposed to Luke’s presence, they can voice it, or they can leave.

Luke settles into a seat across from Vizsla, his expression oddly somber: illuminated by the hologram Vizsla pulls up before them. Resting his elbow on the table, Luke touches his chin, his eyes narrow with thoughtful consideration, and Din realizes he’s never seen him in this element before. It’s easy to remember who he once was, from all his many titles: Commander Skywalker of the Rebel Alliance.

Someone respected, admired – maybe feared for the power he held that no one else understood.

Refocusing, Din relays the report. “Our supply ships are still trying to establish proper trade routes,” Din explains, and while this isn’t news to the council, he provides the debriefing properly. “Still determining what sources are reliable and which aren’t. In the process, their last expedition came back with this.”

Din nods to Vizsla, and the holo in the center of the table changes: there’s a small but heavily guarded facility, surrounded by Troopers. The state of their armour leaves much to be desired, but their numbers make up for any lack of refinement.

Unconsciously, Din finds his gaze drawn to Luke, taking in the furrow of his brow, and he wonders...

“Do we know the purpose of this regiment?” the Armorer asks, and Din shakes his head.

“When recon tried to find out, they underestimated their numbers and were overwhelmed,” Din replies quietly. “The cost was one of our people – and we don’t know if they’re only captured or killed. Our crews are small, and it was safer not to engage further. They retrieved as much intel as they could and came back.”

“And if the Imperials have chosen to execute their prisoner?” she asks, and Vizsla turns sharply towards her.

“Then we make them pay; their mere existence is a threat and an insult,” he insists coldly, “If these Imperial cowards had their way, Mandalore would be nothing but ash and rust.”

“I do not deny this,” the Armorer replies calmly, her helmet tilting as she regards him. “However, this is different from any endeavour our new Mandalore has faced. Our previous ventures have been with specific purpose: to bring home lost convents or protect our planet. This would be a direct assault for one lone Mandalorian, who may already be lost to us. Potentially at the cost of many more. It’s a cause worthy to support, but the risk must also be considered.”

Din holds his tongue, his jaw working restlessly under the shield of his helmet. She’s right; they don’t have the numbers to spare should something go wrong, and there’s the grim threat of only losing more than they gain. Din doubts that any Mandalorian would vote against an assault on the Empire, firmly believing that even one of their people is worth a war, after all that has been taken from them. The simple question is whether or not they can afford to be noble.

“The compound,” Luke says, and the sound of his voice almost startles Din. He reaches out, one gloved finger gesturing to the hologram: casting blue over the ivory bones that decorate his hand. “Is that the only door in?”

If the collective delay in reply is anything to go off of, then Din isn’t the only one surprised that Luke speaks. Vizsla eventually replies, his tone a little stiff. “Yes,” he explains, tapping a button to spin the hologram. “They were able to map the area for us before they were ambushed. There isn’t another entrance. “

Luke mulls that over, his eyes drifting over the map. “So, even if we can overwhelm the troopers outside,” he muses thoughtfully, “If one of them locks up in there… we can guarantee they’ll call for reinforcements.”

Din watches him for a moment, taking in the sight of him: glow drifting over his pale skin as his mind works, his voice uttering ‘we’ with an unconscious ease, unaware of the significance that twists warmly in Din’s chest.

Or, maybe not unaware: Luke’s studious reverie breaks as he turns to look at Din instead, and Din realizes he’s forgetting himself again. He still hasn’t adjusted to the fact that his helmet doesn’t provide the same familiar, safe anonymity that it used to – and his feelings are never quite fully his own anymore.

“Which may not be saying much,” Din offers, before he can get sidetracked, “There isn’t many Imps just sitting around waiting for a call to arms. We’d have time to cut them off.”

“Simple then,” Vizsla reasons confidently. “We only need to get inside.”

Which is easier said than done. Din frowns at the map, considering the sheer amount of firepower that would be necessary, but Luke speaks first.

“I can do it.”

Din joins every other person seated at the table in staring at him. Luke doesn’t waver, even with the entire council watching him, and he keeps his head lifted.

“I can get us inside,” he reiterates confidently.

Din’s stomach does a strange, sharp plummet, his hand forming a fist against the table, and it’s the exact opposite of the dread he felt when he brought Luke here. Paradoxically, for all his misgivings, he looks at Luke now: sitting tall and self-assured, and his chest fills with an unexpected emotion that he can only pin down as _eager_.

“Do we agree?” Din asks belatedly, only half aware of his own distracted delay, and the council’s response is unanimous.

Din’s pulse picks up, and across the table, Luke smirks at him.

\--

Once the decision is made, they move quickly. Delaying too long would risk the situation changing, the Imperials either moving on or calling more infantry to their base. So, they choose their squadron and prepare their ships.

The Armorer elects to stay, and Din absently wonders if it’s selfish for him not to do the same, leaving both the children so recently in their care without either parent to guard them. It isn’t solely because of Luke; Din feels obligated to attend almost every mission with more dire consequences. It’s one concession he never sits well with as a leader: he hates to send his people out into potential danger, without also sharing the burden of that risk himself. It feels wrong, like he’s taking advantage of the power and honour that’s been entrusted to him.

Contrary to what Din expects, he finds it oddly comfortable to have Luke here, rather than concerning. The reality doesn’t live up to the tight, fearful anxiety that lurked in his mind, and Din’s hand loosen on the controls of the Razor Crest as Luke touches his shoulder.

“Hey,” he greets, tilting his head as he regards him. “How are you?”

Din sighs a little, and he has to wonder how often Luke asks as a courtesy, versus when he actually needs to clarify directly. Maybe it’s out of politeness, trying to seem less invasive… though he’d admitted before that Din’s emotions aren’t always so transparent.

Din still hasn’t unpacked that.

“I’m fine,” Din replies, and it’s not entirely a lie. He’s about as good as he can expect to be, given the circumstances. Admittedly, seeing Luke does make him feel oddly more at ease. Given the number of passengers packed in the Crest, he hasn’t actually had a moment alone with him since the mission began.

Luke lingers with him for a moment, his hand smoothing out over his upper arm, choosing to touch him through layers of fabric rather than the more obtrusive Beskar. “I thought you’d be upset with me,” he admits at length.

“I’m not,” Din assures immediately, glancing away from the controls to look up at him properly --- and he finds a smirk hiding in the corner of his lips.

“I know,” Luke says, almost smugly, and he leans over him, pressing his lips to the edge of his visor: warm and lingering.

With that, Luke leaves the cockpit, and Din frowns – too preoccupied by their encroaching destination to mull on it too long.

\--

Out of everything they planned and prepared for, there’s one risk that Din didn’t think to fold into his calculations: the fact that once he actually sees Luke fight, he finds himself sufficiently – maybe dangerously – distracted.

When he brought the mythosaur to the Armorer, he didn’t immediately reveal his intended recipient for the armour. Vague as he could possibly muster, Din had hoped she might assume that he wanted it for himself – and while she never explicitly called him out about it, he has a feeling she was onto him from the very beginning.

She recognized it in him before Din even realized himself.

It wasn’t a conscious decision to paint Luke into the grim spectre that sweeps through the battlefield now. Selfishly, a part of Din wanted to rebel against the memory of Luke’s father that he wears draped over him like an inescapable shadow and offer him something else instead. The mythosaur felt more suited to what he sees when he thinks of Luke: bright, powerful – a force of light and strength to be reckoned with.

But Luke didn’t abandon the darkness of his robes when he accepted his armour, and Din relents that maybe it’s better this way. This is actually the truest version of what Luke is: stark white against black, a beacon in the darkness, like starlight in the wide, empty expanse of space.

The sight of him only stands out more when he cuts through the horde of disgraced and dismal troopers. With their uniforms stained, tarnished and cracked, the gleam of Luke’s armour burns even brighter. He mirrors them like some strange omen; the punishment for all their trespasses.

Above all, out of every surreal and spellbinding inch of him, Din selfishly takes one last detail with the highest significance: the symbol he bears on his shoulder in perfect unison to his own.

He _feels_ it, as he falls in line behind him, back-to-back, the Darksaber alight in his palm as Luke raises his lightsaber in return.

They fight well together, and maybe that’s to be expected, for either sentimental reasons, or the more practical one – they train together so often, it makes sense. What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Luke to reach behind him: finding Din’s wrist and squeezing tight before he charges forward and away from him.

Gods.

It’s the sheer number of them that ends up being the challenge, rather than any individual skill between the miserable herd. Din takes one side as Luke cuts through the other, and their ranks begin to fall to their cowardice just as quickly as they fall under their blades.

“Don’t—” one croaks, falling to his knees and holding his hands above his head. “Please.”

Din obliges, but he can’t help wondering how many times these soldiers heard similar pleas and chose deliberately to ignore them. Holding him still by the threat of the Darksaber against his neck, he seeks Luke out. He finds him standing and fighting among his people – their people – and not a single member is missing from their ranks.

Across the clamour, Luke catches – senses, more likely – the weight of Din’s stare, and turns to meet it. He’s short of breath, eyes bright, and he only holds Din’s gaze for only an instant before he glances _behind_ him instead, and his hand extends with sudden insistence. Startled, Din follows his line of sight, and two troopers who approached his back are thrown aside by an invisible pressure.

Din frowns behind his helmet; he really should have seen that coming.

As the last of the troopers surrender or flee, Luke hurries to his side. Those who run are pursued, but Luke’s priority is clearly the promise he made when they agreed to this mission. Din nods in acknowledgement and grips the trooper by the back of his neck, tossing him towards the compound, urging him into the doorway.

“Open it,” Din orders flatly, and the man does little more than tremble.

“They’ll kill me,” he insists miserably, and Din holds the Darksaber tighter to his throat in reprimand.

“You think I won’t?” Din threatens levelly.

Faster than Din anticipates, Luke is at his side, laying his hand firmly on his forearm. Din’s gaze snaps up to meet him, and Luke glances back at him, steady and reassuring.

“Din,” he promises quietly, “It’s alright.”

With gentle but insistent pressure, he guides the Darksaber down – and Din retracts it with obvious reluctance, stepping back and allowing Luke to take his place.

To his surprise, Luke kneels, making himself even with the trembling trooper before him. His good hand raises, just slightly, and he sweeps his fingers in a slow, sure line in front of the man’s face. “We have to get inside,” he tells him steadily.

Something in the trooper’s posture slumps, his fearful trembling abruptly shattered, seeming very much like a puppet with its strings cut. “You need inside?” he repeats thickly, as if the simple concept is abruptly hard for him to grasp.

“Yes,” Luke affirms earnestly, “It’s important that you let us in.”

“It sounds important,” he agrees hazily, nodding his head a little, sounding like he’s talking in his sleep. “I just – I could get into a lot of trouble.”

All at once, Din realizes what he’s seeing, and he glances down at Luke in a mixture of disbelief and odd, misplaced intimidation. Luke has explained this to him before, and mostly in the with the addendum that he didn’t think it would work on Din – or many Mandalorians, for that matter, given their infamously stubborn will.

Hearing about it was one thing, but seeing it is something else altogether. Listening to Luke bend someone’s will to his own with the simple power of his voice leaves Din somewhat at a loss. Din watches with silent, strange awe, his hands forming fists at his sides.

“Not with me,” Luke reasons fairly, offering him a small, confident smile, and Din feels it burn through him—

That seems to be all the convincing the trooper needs. He nods, and in an odd, almost mechanical stiffness, he rises to his feet and approaches the door. With slow, sure motions, he keys in the code to the door: which opens obediently with a loud clatter and a hiss. That done, he turns back to Luke, and then he stumbles a little, like whatever strange power Luke exerted over him has released its grasp, leaving him disoriented as he stares between the two of them.

“What…” he starts hazily, and he doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“Thank you,” Luke tells him kindly, smiling as he takes holds of the trooper’s wrists – and swiftly locks them into cuffs.

That done, Luke shoots Din a smirk on his way by, venturing boldly forward into the compound, and Din doesn’t immediately follow – struck silent for a beat too long before he hurries to catch up with him.

“Luke!” he calls after him, and Luke moves fearlessly forward, his lightsaber once again bright in his fist, illuminating the dark, narrow corridor ahead in brilliant emerald light.

Din lets his helmet compensate: and the heat signatures expose the threat lying in wait ahead of them. “Luke,” he repeats sharply, and Luke is remarkably steady when he speaks.

“I know,” he answers calmly, and his hand extends. “I see them.”

Din knows better: Luke still scorns his helmet, and in the darkness ahead, Luke doesn’t _see_ anything; he _feels_ it.

They open fire – for all the good it does them. Luke clears the shots in one wide sweep of his lightsaber and the second volley receives the same unceremonious end. It’s an almost effortless, smooth motion of his wrist, but the concentration on his face betrays the strange, serene focus that the skill requires.

Din switches his visor back, allowing himself to see Luke’s face properly, and he looks… Din takes in the sight of him, lit by the glow of his lightsaber, breathless and edged with sweat, and when Luke smirks at him again, heat twists abruptly in the pit of Din’s stomach. 

“Stay here,” Luke says.

“What?”

The sheer absurdity of it takes Din off guard, and he’s too delayed to do anything about it before Luke charges ahead. He’s already gone, and Din stubbornly follows behind him, nonetheless, his pulse rushing in his ear.

Luke lifts his hand up, and the troopers rise with his will, hitting the ceiling with an audible uproar that only doubles when Luke drags them back down again. When they fall, he ensures they stay there: cutting them down as he walks past, steady and sure, and terrifyingly efficient. The few that try to rise don’t make it very far; Luke barely makes a gesture, and the way their hands move towards their throats leaves very little to the imagination.

_Son of a bitch._

Din finds himself struck still, watching as Luke moves, almost unconsciously fluid and lethal, and Din has to realize that, despite every lesson and spar they’ve shared, it still isn’t enough to prepare him for actual seeing Luke in battle.

It’s humbling, in a strange way, and it’s almost like he’s seeing him for the first time as what he really is: the galaxy’s saviour and the inheritor of an impossible power.

Something legendary yet tangible, like the bones that Din crafted for him like a second skin.

A thought creeps in, strange and almost treacherous: if they had met on different terms, in a different place, and faced each other as enemies… Din isn’t sure how it would have ended. Strangely, the idea doesn’t fill him with dread or fear. Instead, heat licks at his insides and he…

He's distracted. Din refocuses and picks up his pace. The corridor ends, splitting in two directions, and Din steadies himself against the opposite corner that Luke chooses. Din barely leans around the edge before he’s forced to withdraw again: blaster fire shooting wildly past him.

From the opposite side of the corridor, Luke shoots him a look, his lips wearing a lopsided grin, and he’s breathless enough for Din to linger too long on his open mouth.

Luke jerks his head towards the source of the shots, and he moves without giving Din the chance to instruct him otherwise. Standing steady in the centre of the hall, he extends his hand, then draws back – like beckoning forth an unseen figure – and the row of eager troopers abruptly find their blasters pulled from their hands, clattering uselessly on the floor at Luke’s feet. Luke holds himself tall, taking a few deliberate, purposeful steps over their fallen weapons as he holds his own: his lightsaber bright and waiting to be challenged.

It's an invitation they wisely don’t take. One drops to his knees, and the others follow after him: arms raised in obvious plea. Luke huffs out a breath and he tilts his head as he regards them, the glow of his blade snuffing out.

“That seems like a good idea,” he praises dryly, and the sound of it goes straight to Din’s head.

\--

Once the Imps are cleared out, it’s remarkably easy to locate the prisoner. He’s roughed up, bruised and bearing a swollen lip, but look like he’s mostly in one piece. Privately, Din’s relieved that it’s a face he recognizes, and not one usually hidden by adherence to the old Creed.

At least the Empire didn’t take that from him.

They approach the cell and he sighs at the sight of them. “Mand’alor,” he groans defeatedly, his posture slumping as if ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Immediately, Din shakes his head. “No need,” he assures him, though he wonders if the injury to his pride is heavier than any physical harm they inflicted. Then again, given how he hasn’t risen to his feet, maybe he’s worse off than Din thinks.

“You’ll have to move back,” Luke advises, kneeling to collect one of the trooper’s fallen rifles. Din’s concern is proven right as the prisoner offers little more than a slight shuffle backwards, cringing with an obvious effort. Luke frowns, sympathy touching his voice as he continues: “Cover your eyes.”

Din ducks his head mildly as Luke steadies the blaster, though some stubborn part of him keeps Luke in the corner of his eye. Luke adjusts the settings for a moment, his eyes narrowed in concentration, and it must be a thoughtless impulse that his tongue slips out to wet his upper lip. His ability to shoot is one of the few things Din ever heard Luke openly boast about, but he rarely actually gets the opportunity to see him with a blaster in his hands.

It gets into the back of Din’s mind like an itch; some odd, base appeal that he’s never really been the victim of before but finds himself stupidly susceptible to now. He keeps looking at Luke’s hands: black and white, capable of so much with the barest gesture…

Din finds himself brought back to reality when Luke actually meets the stare that Din intended to be subtle about. His eyes narrow, just slightly, and then he focuses on the task at hand. Luke must’ve only been watching him for an instant, but the moment stretches with an undefinable agony in Din’s mind.

Din finds himself snapped back to reality as Luke fires. The lock gives way under two shots and an added kick from the heel of Luke’s boot finishes it off, the door hissing open with a defeated click. Dropping the rifle aside, Luke enters the cell, offering out his hand instead.

“Ready to come home?” Luke invites, with significance that still sits in Din’s chest with an undeniable warmth.

\--

Rounding up the Imperials is more of an undertaking than Din anticipated. It takes time, and all things considered it doesn’t keep them waiting _long,_ but every passing moment hangs on Din with an unfamiliar pressure. The Crest is large enough to hold prisoners but organizing the space and coordinating the guard requires idle busywork, and Din keeps not knowing what to do with his hands.

He's not usually so swept up in his own adrenaline, and it leaves him feeling like a rookie worked up after his first big fight. Din isn’t stupid enough to blame it on the combat but admitting to the actual source seems to threaten to make it worse.

Din keeps thinking about Luke. Luke, back-to-back with him in battle. Luke, damp with sweat and breathless. Luke, simultaneously lethal and full of light. Luke…

Luke, who sits with the prisoner now. One hand rests mildly on his chest, and the other hovers lightly next to the side of his face. His eyes flutter shut, closing in concentration, and as he watches, Din realizes what he’s trying to do.

When Din explained that the Child had healed Karga – though not without an obvious effort – Luke’s reaction surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. It figures that his masters saw fit to train him to fight but not to heal; it seems to line up with their selfish, skewed methods of showing Luke their ways. It’s as if they simply wanted him as a weapon, using him like a tool to strike down his own father and little else. No thought for Luke himself, who he was or who he could be. Who he might _want_ to be.

Then again, Din can’t say it wasn’t effective, if what he saw today is any indication. He keeps thinking about the way Luke smiled at him in the middle of the clamour, about how many troops fell under his hand, about…

Luke’s eyes open, and rather than look at the prisoner in front of him, his gaze finds Din’s. His expression shifts: starting with wide eyes before he looks Din up and down, clearly scrutinizing with one arched brow.

From where he stands, Din does his best not to waver. Luke always tells him that it’s hard to sense what’s on his mind, and he wonders how true that is now. If their time together has started to weather away that barrier, leaving his thoughts easy for Luke to see.

Lowering his hands, Luke shoots the prisoner an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he says with a sigh. “I’m still getting used to it.”

The man shakes his head, touching his face: while it’s not a completely clean slate, the bruises have faded and the swelling is noticeably decreased. He huffs a disbelieving laugh, glancing over his shoulder to smirk up at Din. “That’s quite the husband you’ve got here, Mand’alor,” he tells him slyly, and Din hums in quiet agreement.

“I know,” Din answers automatically, his voice stiff, and Luke glances at him again, his eyes narrowing with something like suspicion.

Then, slowly, his lips curve up into a smirk. It’s there for only the barest moment before Luke ducks his head, hiding it from view – and Din’s stomach does a strange, uneasy twist.

He suddenly feels like he’s been caught.

\--

It seems to take eons before they can take off. Din figures flying might make him more at ease, but it only serves to make him feel more on edge. The isolation of the cockpit only makes his mind keener to wander, his ears ringing with the memory of Luke’s unsteady breath and the hum of his blade to fill the silence.

He’s distracted enough that he misses the actual sound of Luke approaching until he speaks.

“ _Su’cuy,_ ” he says, and Din turns in his seat to regard him. He’s pulled his hood up, and Din always feels like the gesture makes his eyes seem brighter.

“…Hi,” he replies belatedly.

Luke cocks his head, as if he needs to look at him from another angle to understand him properly. Din isn’t sure what he sees, but he smiles a little wider as he straightens up again.

“How’s the trip back look?” Luke asks casually.

“Fine,” Din replies stiffly, turning back towards the controls and pulling up the map for Luke to survey. “Faster than the route in.”

Stepping up behind him, Luke sets both hands on his shoulders. Following the gap in his armour, Luke slides his hands from the edge of his pauldrons up towards his neck, then back down again. It’s a slow, lingering motion, and Din’s body tenses when Luke squeezes down.

“That’s good,” Luke observes, leaning forward to rest his chin on the top of Din’s helmet. He can’t feel it -- not directly -- but his head bends under the added pressure, and his mouth feels dry.

“You should let me drive sometime,” Luke muses loftily, his hand moving to slide down the front of Din’s chest. It’s an idle, seemingly thoughtless gesture, but Din knows better: it’s with clear, deliberate intent that Luke follows the dips and edges around his Beskar, his fingers trailing in little patterns slowly and surely.

Din’s hands tighten on the controls, and he swallows thickly.

“I don’t know about that,” Din replies, exerting deliberate effort to keep his voice level.

“Why not?” Luke argues, the very tips of his fingers moving up and down his chest, and Din’s heart rattles against his ribs. “I’m a good pilot.”

Din scoffs a little. That’s another topic on the short list of skills that Luke openly brags about – well, bragging is probably not the right term. After he and his X-Wing saved the galaxy, Din supposes he’s earned the right to boast. Same as he’s earned a similar right with his swordsmanship, and his ability to shoot.

With the state Din’s in right now, another display of Luke’s skills might send him off the deep end. He isn’t sure he can watch Luke fly without losing some part of his sanity.

“She’s bigger than what you’re used to,” Din points out, as if that’s at all a rational objection, and Luke’s too keen to let him get away with it.

“Mh,” Luke intones, decidedly unconvinced. He shifts behind him, allowing himself the room to reach his hand down, his palm lying flat on the outside of Din’s thigh.

Belatedly, Din realizes he’s given Luke far too easy of an opening – and even when he realizes his mistake, it does nothing to lessen the blow of what comes next.

“Not too big for me,” Luke counters smoothly, his hand dragging deliberately down Din’s thigh, following the edge where his armour ends. “I can take it.”

Gods.

Heat burns across his cheeks, and Din is grateful for the cover of his helmet. Though that never counts for much with Luke; his feelings are more easily gleaned than his thoughts, and that fact is readily apparent. Din does his best to hold very, very still, even as Luke chuckles against his ear.

“You know I can take it,” he reiterates mercilessly. “You can show me what to do; I learn fast.”

Din wants to take that invitation more than anything. He could show Luke what to do right here and now; he could grab the hand that’s teasing so close and guide it up between his thighs instead. He could make good on the offer, see how much Luke is willing to _take_ – and they could test if there’s space for him on his knees in the cramped space of the cockpit…

No, he couldn’t. He knows that they can’t – and Luke knows too; which is exactly why he’s doing this.

Din’s too busy focusing the touch to his leg to worry about what Luke’s other hand may be doing – which is his own mistake. Clever fingers slide along the back of his neck, finding the gap where his helmet ends and the cover of his clothing begins. Hooking his fingers into the hem, he pulls down: exposing just enough skin for Luke to press his mouth against with a quiet, indulgent hum.

Din temporarily loses all sense of his surroundings. Luke’s lips part, the warm sweep of his tongue brushing against the back of his throat, and Din very nearly breaks right then and there. He’s barely conscious of the shuddering sigh he makes in reply until Luke chuckles at the sound of it.

“Din. You’re wandering,” he chastises, and Din abruptly snaps back to the present.

He’s right. Just a little urgently – but not fast enough to swerve – he corrects his course, embarrassment burning in with the hot, insistent desire that thuds at the base of his spine. Humming thoughtfully, Luke pulls back, and his absence aches as much as his touch.

“I should go,” Luke says innocently. “If I throw you off course, then who knows when we’ll get back home.”

Din turns in his chair, meeting Luke’s gaze, and from underneath his hood, Luke winks at him.

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

\--

It’s late by the time they arrive on Mandalore, and Din wishes it meant he could follow the example of his subjects and retire for the night. Instead, he’s ushered along as they unload their prisoners and process them one by one.

A stubborn, uncharacteristic part of him feels like he doesn’t need to be present for this, and he knows it’s a purely selfish thought, but he can’t help himself.

He just keeps thinking about Luke. Luke, who is owed for the success of this mission. Luke, who refused to be dismissed and chose to deliberately stick around – maybe not selflessly, and maybe more to torment him. Luke, who can surely sense every inch of tension along with every shameless impulse that he barely keeps contained.

Luke stands a few short steps away from him, talking with his comrades, but his eyes wander: knowingly meeting Din’s gaze with his lips smirking.

Why did they take _so_ many prisoners?

Din swallows thickly, relief ebbing through him as the last trooper is unmasked, logged, and locked away. He thanks the guards, very sincerely, and leaves them to their watch as he rejoins his husband.

“Hi,” Luke says casually, apparently keeping his hands to himself now as he threads his fingers together. “All done?”

“Yeah,” Din replies artlessly, his own hands restlessly clenching at his sides.

“That’s good,” Luke observes, seeming passive as he taps his thumbs together. “I’m glad the timing worked out; it’s better that Finn and the others don’t have to see them.”

The sentiment cuts through Din’s distraction, and he gives a stiff nod. Tilting his head, the shadow of Luke’s hood shifts, obscuring half his face. “I think we should wait and pick them up tomorrow, by the way,” he continues smoothly. “It’s late; we should let them sleep.”

That, however, is much less sentimental. Din tightens his jaw, nodding as calmly as he can muster as he imagines all the potential implied in a completely empty house. An empty house with no one else to wake if he wants to test how many new, desperate noises he can rip from his husband’s throat – and whether or not he’s capable of reaching new volumes.

“Right,” Din replies steadily, taking another step towards him.

“Mand’alor.”

The sound of it stops him in his tracks, his stomach plummeting in sheer, disbelieving defeat, and he turns to find the Armorer approaching with steady footfalls. He knows what this means the moment he sees her, and his entire posture deflates.

“The council wants to hear from you,” she says, sounding just as taxed by it as he feels right this very second – which is something of a feat, given the circumstance.

“You’re joking,” Din manages, and she tilts her head to one side.

“I wouldn’t wake myself in the middle of the night to play a joke on the sole ruler of our people,” she tells him bluntly.

Behind him, Luke touches his hand to his mouth, and Din can recognize the gesture as a deliberate effort to obscure his expression. Din tries to ignore it, and the heat that it sends up the back of his neck.

“Can’t this wait until morning?” he asks her tersely, and she doesn’t waver.

“Apparently not,” she replies curtly.

Luke’s hand touches his upper arm, squeezing down, and Din knows he’s a lost cause for how much even that innocent touch distracts him.

“Duty calls,” Luke coaxes, and Din’s head races: reaching for an excuse and finding that his useless, preoccupied mind has nothing viable to offer.

“Is there something else you need to attend to?”

Din glances between the two of them, and the smirk that Luke can’t hide feels like torment.

“No,” Luke replies for them both, not breaking eye contact with Din. “I think we have a pretty empty schedule.”

Luke keeps smiling, and Din’s hands clench tightly into fists.

“…Right,” Din replies at length, succumbing as he follows her.

\--

The meeting is a new definition of torture.

Luke sits beside him in with newfound boldness, and Din spends the entire time expecting a repeat encounter like the cockpit of the Razor Crest. They’re right beside each other, and if Luke’s hand wandered back to his thigh, it would barely be noticed.

However, Luke keeps his hands right where the entire council can see them, and somehow that’s worse. With the absence of any real taunt, his mind goes into an overdrive of anticipating, filling in the gaps with his own pent-up, insistent yearning.

Luke is so close to him, and when Luke doesn’t touch him, Din almost reaches out himself instead. He contains himself with the simple knowledge that this won’t take long, and once it’s over he’ll have the entire night as reward for his patience.

Paz doesn’t look any more thrilled to be here, but he takes the opportunity to speak up when he has the chance. “The council should recognize the efforts Skywalker made during this mission,” Paz says, and Din is too distracted to even be touched by the significance of Luke’s name on his lips. “We owe him for our success.”

Luke bends his head at the praise, gently raising his hand in acknowledgement of the murmurs of approval, and he seems to glow in a way Din can’t put to words. If they’re impressed by just hearing about it, then Din can’t imagine the reaction he’d receive if they saw what he saw. If they managed to witness Luke the way Din did: swept up in combat, fearless and powerful and unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

“Mand’alor?”

Din snaps his head up, finding every occupant at the table staring at him, and he abruptly realizes that he’s been asked something that he absolutely did not hear.

“…Sorry,” he manages, his throat feeling tight. “What was the question?”

Luke curls his lips together, but it’s still not enough to contain his grin.

\--

When the council adjourns, Din practically drags Luke along the short walk back to the house. In the back of his mind, he wonders if anyone who spots them might mistake the urgency for an argument. He wouldn’t blame them, given the way Din’s hand is tightly locked around Luke’s arm, guiding him along with a certain insistence in his step.

Luke doesn’t say a single word along the way, either feeling cocky enough that he doesn’t think he needs to say anything else, or maybe he’s finally run out of clever barbs. That suits Din fine; he can think of other uses for his smart mouth.

He barely passes the threshold before he’s proven wrong. Luke lifts his hands, pulling his hood back down to pool around his shoulders, and for the umpteenth time Din finds himself drawn to the bright, clear colour of Luke’s eyes.

“You must be tired, after all of that,” he teases, mockingly serious. “Ready for bed?”

Hilarious.

He grabs Luke by the front of his cloak, walking forward with a firm, deliberate push until his back is against the nearest wall. Luke laughs, his face breaking into a huge grin, and the sight of it just serves to rile Din up even further. With the slightest motion of Luke’s hand, the lock at the back of Din’s helmet clicks free, and heat floods through him all at once. He has to wonder if Luke has done something to the wiring in his brain, and if eventually that little gesture will be all it takes for Din to get riled up. His helmet is guided up and off, and Din doesn’t want to wonder how compromising his expression is underneath it.

“Oh,” Luke says innocently, tilting his head as he takes in the sight of Din’s face. “Did you want something?”

Din rewards him with a knock of his boot against the inside of Luke’s calf, forcing his stance wider apart so he can shove his thigh up between his legs and push. Uttering a shaky sigh, Luke arches forward, his hands fumbling for a grip on Din’s shoulders – and Din only considers it for the barest instant before he snatches Luke’s wrists under his palms and pins them against the wall above his head.

Luke’s eyes widen although his smile remains, and Din can’t help a selfish edge of satisfaction that cuts through him. He’s spent the entire day in a state of prolonged, agonizing frustration, and Luke deliberately antagonized him.

“You’re a nightmare,” Din accuses bluntly as he leans into Luke, pinning him under his weight and pushing relentlessly forward. “I married a nightmare.”

With a mixture of a gasp and a laugh, Luke tips his head back, grinding down on the smooth, solid plating that covers Din’s thigh. “Is that what you were thinking?” he taunts, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. “When you were staring at me?”

Gods.

Luke leans up, trying to kiss him, and Din makes him wait for it. Bowing his head out of his reach, he shuffles his grip, trapping both of Luke’s hands under one of his, freeing himself enough to touch him.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Din affirms lowly, his hand taking a slow, steady path down Luke’s chest, tracing the armour that was carved from bone in his name. “Not my nightmare, but theirs—”

Luke blinks at him, his smirk flickering as the sentiment settles in, and Din finds that once he starts speaking, it’s hard to stop. “I’ve never seen you like that; never knew you could be like that,” he continues quietly, pulling his leg back so he can cup Luke in his palm instead. Luke gasps out, his hips bucking, and Din rubs down with the heel of his palm. “You’re so…

“You’re something that shouldn’t be real,” Din murmurs, uncertain if he’s even making sense at this point. Like the bones that shield him, he seems to belong to some old, ancient legend. Din knows the intimidation carried with Luke’s name now: a threat and a power that brought an entire Empire to its knees – and now Luke’s knees buckle as Din squeezes down. “But you are, and you’re here, with me, and I can touch you—”

Din wets his lips as he works away at Luke’s belt. As much as he can muster with Din’s body pushing against him, Luke squirms, groaning softly as Din reaches under his pants to free his cock. The relief earns a soft sigh from Luke’s lips, his head lolling to one side, and Din’s heart hammers in his throat.

“Look at you now—” Din utters it almost unthinkingly, and it inspires Luke’s eyes to open: seeming impossibly blue in the dim light of the hall.

Din focuses on his expression: lips parted, his eyes bright, and colour rising to his cheeks. Trapped underneath Din’s hold, his fingers twitch and tighten, clenching into fists as his erection stays exposed and deliberately untouched. Leaning back, Din takes in the sight of his cock, straining and darkly flushed, seeming indulgently explicit in its stark contrast to the cold monochrome of his armour.

“Din,” Luke manages quietly, his hips lifting, and Din realizes he’s staring again.

Glancing up, Din tilts his head as he meets Luke’s gaze. “What?” he says dryly, parroting Luke’s taunt from just moments before. “Did you want something?”

Luke somehow groans and laughs in one breath, his head tipping back against the wall as he winces. “Din,” he repeats entreatingly, his hips jerking forward, and Din makes a thoughtful sound.

“You’re not making a very good argument,” Din points out, cupping Luke’s chin in his palm, rather than touching him where he wants it. “Considering what a brat you’ve been.”

“A brat?!” Luke repeats disbelievingly, his brows raising. “Is that what—mh.”

Din cuts off whatever argument Luke tries to give by slipping his thumb into his mouth, pushing down on his tongue. Luke doesn’t fight it – just the opposite, he closes his lips and sucks, firm enough for Din to feel it through the leather of his glove, and the sensation goes straight to Din’s head.

Maybe this was the wrong gesture to try to punish Luke with, all things considered. All it does is remind him of the warm, welcoming heat of Luke’s mouth, and his own arousal spikes. There’s an almost greedy enthusiasm when Luke draws him deeper, meeting his gaze with deliberate intent, and Din knows too well that his face doesn’t disguise any of his reactions.

“You like it,” Luke challenges slyly, pulling off his thumb with a slow, slick sound. “Who else is going to tease you?”

No one, is the honest thought. When their people were first getting settled here on Mandalore, feeling safe and established enough to put down roots, Din had to come to terms with being a commodity. Even the Armorer pushed that it would be good for him to get married. Cara found it hilarious, but Din wasn’t nearly as amused. It made him feel strange, and none of the propositions did anything to appeal to him. They all just wanted to insist on their strength as a warrior, as if that was all that would appeal to him.

Funny, how it shunned the idea then – and now here he is, bothered and stifled under his armour from seeing Luke fight.

“You’re too intimidating for anyone else to make fun of you,” Luke says, wetting his lips as he looks at him, considering, before he adds almost thoughtfully: “They’d be bowing to you instead.”

A slow, smug grin spreads over his flushed face. “Maybe you want that more?” Luke asks curiously, softening his voice as he continues. “Mand’alor. Sole Ruler. Please? _Gedet'ye_?”

Somehow, Luke manages to even make begging sound like a taunt. He’s too smirking to be actually affected, pleading solely for Din’s benefit, and the worst part of it is that it works. Pulling his glove off with his teeth, Din spits generously into his bare palm and wraps his hand around Luke’s cock. He squeezes down, moving in one long, slow stroke, and he’s rewarded with a moan that Luke undoubtedly exaggerates – but it makes Din’s head feel fuzzy, nonetheless.

“You _are_ a brat,” he tells him firmly, his thumb rolling over the slick head of his cock. Luke sighs, his hands straining under Din’s hold, but he keeps him firmly where he is.

He can’t help but think of the first time he touched Luke like this, how tight, insistent pressure pushed on the back of his skull and made him feel like he was losing this mind. How heat had twisted through his stomach at the realization that he could touch him. He feels it again now: thrumming and demanding, and he knows it won’t be the last time Luke threatens to drive him insane.

He watches Luke as he strokes him: he moans, much more sincerely this time, and his eyes flutter before they drift shut. Unconsciously, Din’s next exhale carries a shuddering sound, and he’s struck again with the helpless, honest fact that he could watch Luke like this indefinitely. Even riled as he is, with his armour heavy and hot, and his own arousal persisting in an ache… it all drifts further back into his mind as Luke shakes underneath him.

Luke hums a little, making an affirmative noise as he rocks his hips, picking up his rhythm until he’s fucking up into Din’s fist. He’s something to behold like this: edged with sweat, simultaneously armoured and exposed, and Din hangs on every quiet noise he makes in response to his touch. His hands clench, knuckles whitening, and he laughs along with a helpless, needy moan.

“Din,” he manages breathlessly. “Ah. If you keep going, I’m not going to last.”

Almost unconsciously, Din slows his touch. It hardly seems like fair turnaround, for Luke to spend a whole day tormenting him, and his reprimand is only a few minutes of denial before he gets his way. Naturally, he’s as riled as Din is, so he’s already close, but…

“Din,” Luke repeats weakly, his hips jerking uselessly against his abruptly still hand. “Hey—”

Wetting his lips, Din meets Luke’s gaze. There’s something different in his eyes, a new sort of neediness that he’s never noticed before – likely because he tends to indulge Luke before he gets too desperate. He likes to treat his husband well, and he likes to give him what he wants; he’s never in the habit of making Luke wait, or beg.

But.

“Din,” he laughs a little. “Don’t tease me.”

That’s big talk, coming from him, when he’s been teasing Din all day.

Din gives the base of Luke’s cock a firm, almost reprimanding squeeze, and Luke gives a startled sort of groan. Din stops touching him altogether and doesn’t even give Luke time to be disappointed before he wraps his arms around his middle and hoists him up. Luke gasps, one arm wrapping around his shoulders to brace himself, while his other hand buries into Din’s hair and tugs encouragingly.

Unable to help himself, his mouth presses to Luke’s throat, kissing over the line of his pulse and up to the base of his ear. Half blind from burying his face into Luke’s neck and refusing to budge, Din carries him the short distance to the bedroom mostly on familiar instinct and Luke laughs when he’s tossed carelessly down onto the mattress.

“You’re unbelievable,” Din scolds, utterly venomless, from where he stands at the edge of the bed, grabbing Luke’s leg and working away at his armour. He starts with the clasps on his thigh, then down to his calves, where he works his boots up and off. With that leg done, he drops it gracelessly, grabbing the second to give it the same treatment. He’s efficient, but playfully rough, demanding in his every gesture. “Do you know that?”

Luke, breathless and bright eyed, grins up at him from the bed. “Yes,” he quips smugly, purposefully trying to rile Din up, and all too obviously aware of his success. Din leans over him, finally closing the gap between them and letting their mouths meet in a fevered, demanding kiss. Luke hums approvingly, trying to keep him close, but Din is preoccupied, drawing back to work away at his remaining armour.

Luke does his share, reaching for the clasps in Din’s armour that are gradually becoming more and more familiar to him. That’s a thought that lingers on Din too: how intimately familiar they’ve become in such a short time, even when so many things are still feel so new. He likes looking at Luke in his armour; he likes the lewd, indulgent image of his cock against perfect ivory – but he likes looking at his body even more, committing even more of its details to his memory every time they touch each other.

If Luke’s fevered enthusiasm is anything to go off, he very much feels the same. Din has to pull back to remove everything properly, and he strips bare before he rejoins him, climbing onto the bed on top of him.

“Hi,” Luke says sweetly, cupping the back of Din’s head to draw him down for another kiss. Din sighs into it, pushing his tongue into Luke’s mouth and humming as he traces his teeth. Chuckling, Luke strokes his fingers through his hair with one hand, while the other makes a little gesture, and Din hears the bedside drawer ease open – seemingly of its own accord, if he didn’t know any better.

“That’s a little presumptuous,” Din tells him flatly, half murmured against his mouth, and Luke chuckles against his jaw.

“Please?” he goads, and Din wishes he had a stronger resolve.

Drawing back, Din rummages through the drawer and collects the bottle of lube, coating his fingers generously before he rejoins him. He’s a little rougher when he pushes Luke’s legs apart, settling between them as he braces himself above him.

“We should do this in your ship sometime,” Luke offers lowly, because he’s seemingly determined to not give Din even two minutes of peace. He reaches up, framing Din’s face in his hands. “While you’re teaching me how to fly it, would you like that?”

It’s tempting to say that, given everything, Luke knows damn well how much Din would like that, but instead he just swears under his breath. “ _Haar'chak_ ,” he mutters and Luke hums approvingly.

“There’s space for me in your lap,” he suggests indulgently, his lips following the line of Din’s jaw, planting kisses along the way. “You can show me what to do while I sit on your—”

Din cuts him off, reaching down between them to slide slick fingers over him, lingering without pushing inside just yet. Luke gasps out – and it’s clearly more in anticipation than an actual response, since Din just stays like that: idly tracing back and forth against sensitive muscle, and Luke’s hips jerk up uselessly underneath him.

“ _Cyar’ika,_ ” Din utters in reprimand, his voice soft and betraying. “You’re killing your husband.”

“Hey!” Luke laughs, shoving his face under his palm, mockingly scorning him. “I’m a _good_ husband– ah…”

Din doesn’t let him finish. He _is_ good, that’s why Din eases one finger up inside of him, soothing his anticipation with something tangible. Luke moans, quiet and relieved, and he gives a little nod of his head against Din’s shoulder.

“There you go,” Din utters unconsciously, and Luke shivers underneath him.

There’s always something about this that Din takes an almost greedy satisfaction in. It’s different than the mutual, overwhelming act of being inside of him – when he’s too wrapped up in his own reactions to take in every part of Luke without at least some distraction. Here, like this, even with the dull, persistent ache of his own arousal lingering in the back of his mind, he can give his full attention to his husband in every way he deserves.

Easing Luke back against the mattress, Din gives himself full view of his expressions as he slowly opens him up. There’s the initial tension furrowing his brow, causing his jaw to clench, but his hips move in open encouragement as his eyes flutter blissfully shut. Eventually all that tension bleeds out into something softer, and as Luke wets his lips with a quiet sound, Din’s breath catches in his throat.

“It’s good,” Luke assures him, as if Din had any doubt, and he reaches forward, squeezing his fingers around Din’s bicep. “You can keep going.”

On sheer instinct, Din almost obliges without thinking twice – then, he catches himself, watching the colour darkening over Luke’s cheeks. He’s never really made Luke work for anything; too preoccupied with how badly he wants to touch him, and the notion makes his stomach flop.

“Ask me?” he prompts tentatively, more obviously requesting than demanding, and Luke’s eyes seem to shine when he glances up at him.

“Mh?” he utters artlessly, as if too overwhelmed to actually process what Din’s saying right away. As Din stays perfectly still, watching him expectantly, it seems to click. Whining breathlessly, Luke looks achingly handsome as he smiles up at him.

“Please give me more?” he entreats, and heat spikes up through Din’s spine, filling his head and making it spin.

Luke gasps when Din indulges him, easing a second finger up inside him, and his back arches off the bed. Din keeps still to start, his free hand running slowly down Luke’s side, and Luke whines a little on his next exhale.

Din watches him, letting his gaze wander as he begins shallowly moving in and out. Luke’s chest heaves in short, shaky breaths, the scars over his skin pale and twitching as he shudders. Din’s thumb traces the line of one thoughtfully, the marks looking like lightning living under his skin, and he’s struck again at how much he considers Luke a marvel. The things he’s survived are just as momentous as the things he can do, and Din wonders if anyone else has ever touched him with the sort of reverence that he deserves.

He doubts it. From what Din can gather from their talks, the few brief, half-formed unions he attempted were held back by Luke’s reputation. They put Luke on some pedestal that made him seem untouchable, deeming themselves undeserving without even a discussion -- surely fueling Luke’s sense of feeling too burdened by obligations to be selfish.

Din can understand, to some extent. He leans over Luke now, taking in the sight of him rocking back against his touch, flushed and breathless, and it’s abruptly difficult to reconcile the sight of him now with the sheer force of nature that he watched on the battlefield. Luke is capable of so much, powerful beyond Din’s understanding, but Din is the one who he chooses to stay in his bed – who he chose to marry.

Bending his head, Din presses his lips to the base of one pale, thin scar that sits at the hollow spot beside his hip. Following one branch all the way up, he maps the shape of it with his mouth, following the line of it up over his ribs and underneath his collarbone. Luke cups the back of his head, sighing as Din traces another branch on the way down. The path leads him close to the flushed, untouched swell of his cock, which he purposefully leaves alone even when Luke gives his hair a guiding tug. The closest he gets is to drag his tongue through the smear of precum just above on his belly, indulging his own impulse to taste him before moving on. Din keeps his head down, following down the centre of his chest, as if determined to trace every inch of his under his lips.

“Oh, you’re so much,” Luke sighs shakily, running his fingers through Din’s hair adoringly. He lifts his hips up, head lolling to one side as he gazes down at him. “Din. Please. If you do that, I’ll…”

The unfinished implication says enough, and Din can’t deny being tempted. The thick, heady taste of him lingers on Din’s tongue, and it would be so easy to wrap his lips around his cock, to feel Luke fall apart in his mouth…

It’s not something he’s been able to give anyone else, and the novelty still curls hot in the pit of his stomach. Given the condition Luke’s in, Din doesn’t imagine he’d last though, and – selfishly enough – he hasn’t had his fill of him yet.

Rather than taking his coaxing, Din lifts his head up instead, watching Luke deliberately as he slowly curls his fingers inside of him. Luke’s entire expression changes: his eyes squeezing shut as his mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, and Din’s reminded abruptly of the ache between his legs. As quickly as the notion comes, he can smother it again, his attention sufficiently stolen by how Luke looks when he slowly, steadily, spreads him open with his fingers.

Luke laughs, the sound a mixture of delirious want and helplessness. “Din,” he gasps, his voice bleeding into a whine as he grabs tight onto his shoulders. “ _Oh—_ please?”

Din hums, leaning back as he rests his palm on Luke’s thigh. He pushes there, spreading his legs wider, giving himself a better view as he eases another finger inside of him. He wants to see it, the raw, base appeal of watching his knuckles sink into the unrelenting heat of Luke’s body making his blood feel like liquid fire, twisting and aching in his stomach. Luke lets out a soft, shuddering moan as Din moves inside him, his pace almost leisurely despite the way Luke lifts his hips in an unspoken request.

Din firmly believes he could do this for hours, if Luke didn’t lose his mind first. He’s utterly absorbed in every little reaction, every gasp or shudder when he moves his hand. Luke looks nearly incoherent, his hand instinctively covering over his mouth when Din strokes his fingers on a trained, familiar angle. The embarrassment comes on an old instinct he can’t seem to smother, and Din takes his wrist, pinning it down against the sheets instead.

“Let me hear it,” Din coaxes, and he’s not sure it’s a conscious choice that Luke lets out a loud, keening moan. The sound deepens as Din curls his fingers, and then every slow, full thrust earns a sharp, needy gasp as a reward.

His pulse thuds, and Din wets his lips, head tilting to one side as he watches Luke threaten to fall apart beneath him. “Din, it’s good, but I can’t – do this forever,” Luke moans helplessly, and Din hums in reply.

“I could,” he replies instinctively.

Something that might’ve been a laugh strangles in Luke’s throat, his head tilting back against the bed as his legs shake. Din can’t help the possessive pang he feels knowing that the image is his alone now: Luke, his bangs damp with sweat and his lips parted for shaking moans, his lashes soft and fluttering against his pale skin. “ _Adenn_ ,” Luke accuses playfully, and Din’s head feels fuzzy.

_Merciless._

Din’s breathing stalls, and he has to close his eyes. He’s admittedly on the edge of overwhelmed himself, without even being touched, and if Luke starts talking to him like that… Luke doesn’t say it like an honest accusation, but the notion lingers: Din isn’t trying to repay him for his torment today; he honestly just can’t get enough of him. He never can.

Din draws his hand back, and Luke’s protest to the absence is even more needy than his response to being touched. Din doesn’t intend to keep him waiting long. Even the act of slicking his cock sends a shudder rocking through him, and it takes deliberate effort to keep his head straight.

Grabbing onto Luke’s hips, he flips him onto his front, and Luke gives a gasp that stretches into a loud, needy groan as Din guides his cock against him. He teases him, even now, sliding indulgently up against the wet heat of him without pushing forward. Luke groans, his hands forming fists against the bedsheets, and Din’s heartbeat quickens.

“Luke,” he tells him, wrapping his arm around Luke’s chest to pull him close. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Luke sighs shakily, grinding his hips back, trying to urge him on as he shudders beneath him. “Is it this?” he asks, surprisingly coherent despite the waver in his voice. “Do I make you feel like this?”

Gods.

Din can’t hold himself back. Keeping a steady hold on Luke’s hips, he leans forward, pushing up inside of him. Desperate and overworked, Luke’s body offers him no resistance, and Din presses into the tight, slick heat of him until their bodies meet. The sound that breaks from Luke’s lips sounds almost like relief, and Din’s perspective seems to white out before he can appreciate it properly. He stays like that, pressed to the hilt inside of him, listening to the sound of Luke’s shallow breathing.

On some base instinct, his hand finds Luke’s throat. He doesn’t squeeze, but he gives a deliberate push, possessive in how he guides his face tight against his own. He presses his lips against his temple, his cheek, and the corner of his mouth. Luke takes the invitation to twist his head the rest of the way, kissing him hot and messy.

“There you go,” Din offers unevenly, murmuring against his mouth, rocking his hips just enough for Luke to feel it. “That’s what you wanted?”

It sounds goading, but Luke’s eager, wordless assent does as much to Din as his neediness does. Luke moans, breathless and a little bit delirious, and he grinds his hips back on Din’s cock. Din shudders, his fingers spreading over Luke’s throat, and he presses his lips to the base of his ear.

“It _is_ like this,” he tells him lowly, muttering against his cheek as moves his hips, building a slow, heavy rhythm as he clutches Luke tight against his chest. “I love you so much—”

Breathing raggedly, Luke keeps himself upright with one hand braced on the mattress, the other reaching back to grasp for Din’s hip. A curse hisses out from between his teeth, and he tilts his head back under Din’s hand, exposing more of his neck like an offering.

“Lemme watch you come, okay?” Luke asks shakily, his body jerking uselessly underneath the rhythm of Din’s thrusts. “ _Ah_. I waited – I want to see it.”

Din couldn’t fathom denying him now. He pulls back, grunting under his breath as he flips Luke onto his back again. The graceless manhandling earns a breathless grin from Luke, and he pulls Din close again with an undeniable greed that’s more than mutual. He wraps himself around Luke’s trembling body as he pushes deep inside of him again, and the ease of it does something crude and indulgent to Din’s head, pulling a rough groan from his throat.

“Shit –"

Denial makes it nearly impossible to hold back, and Luke’s voice breaks as Din gives in, indulging the ache that’s been building in the back of his skull since he first saw Luke draw his lightsaber. A part of him still feels amazed by it, like he can’t believe he’s been allowed this close, that he knows Luke in a way no one else possibly could.

He knows what Luke likes; what he wants – he knows how the angle his thrusts to make Luke’s eyes flutter as his chest heaves. He keeps himself there, feeling Luke tighten underneath him, and the heat at the base of his spine feels secondary to how Luke’s body begins to shake. Luke grinds back against him, taking him deeper – harder – and Din feels like he can’t get close enough. One of the hands on Luke’s hips almost wanders, finally threatening to break his resolve, but something else creeps in, and Din speaks instead.

“Can you come like this?” Din asks breathlessly, his heart hammering in his throat from the idea alone. Even if Luke said no, the idea is infectious, sending heat coiling in his veins – but Luke doesn’t deny him.

Bright and breathless, Luke gazes hazily up at him. He holds Din’s stare, wetting his lips, and Din feels for the umpteenth time that he’s never seen someone so achingly attractive.

“Yeah,” Luke sighs unsteadily, wrapping his legs tight around Din’s waist to keep him close. He arches up to meet him, the hard, hot swell of his cock just barely rubbing against the muscle of Din’s stomach. “Yeah. _Please._ I can take it; I want to—”

Gods.

Din gives in, fucking him full and hard, taking in every soft, shaking sound Luke makes with an insatiable hunger. Luke hums affirmative, mindless praise, heels digging into the small of Din’s back, and it doesn’t take long – not after everything he endured to get this far. His hands, shaky but strong, grip tight on Din’s shoulders, blunt nails pressing into his skin as he jostles against the mattress underneath him. “ _Din._ You—”

Whatever sentiment Luke tries to offer chokes in his throat before he can finish. Luke bucks up, losing himself to a loud, shaking moan that seems to echo in Din’s head even after Luke’s voice breaks. He feels him come as much as he hears it; his body clenches down around his cock, almost ending him in that instant, and his come stains warm and wet against his skin. All of that, shamelessly appealing as it may be, is nothing compared to the look on Luke’s face.

He’s lost to something utterly blissful, the initial tight, overwhelming rush of sensation bleeding out to something almost serene. He slumps beneath him, still lazily rocking his hips on Din, like he’s riding out the sensation of his orgasm for as long as he can muster. Din feels hazy, watching Luke fall apart on his cock, and he’s practically incoherent himself.

“Mine,” Din groans lowly, dragging his hand back through Luke’s hair as he watches his face. He feels utterly undone by it, as desperate and unraveled as he’d made Luke feel. “My husband.”

“Yeah,” Luke agrees hazily, cupping Din’s face in his palm and indulgently pushing his thumb into his mouth. “C’mon, _cyar’ika_ , you can come too.”

The words break whatever thin restraint Din has left, and he moans, low and lingering, as his hips snap forward and he empties out inside of him. Din shakes, unable to keep himself upright, but Luke makes no complaints about wrapping him up in his arms, keeping him close as he practically collapses down against him.

Din isn’t sure how much time he loses like that. Eventually his breathing levels out, and sensation fades off into a dull, pleasant hum across his skin. He’s just barely coherent enough to withdraw and collapse in a tangle next to his husband, before succumbing entirely and giving up on movement altogether.

Next to him, Luke hums in a way that sounds satisfied, and despite barely being able to keep his eyes open, a smile tugs at the corner of Din’s mouth.

“That was nice,” Luke remarks innocently, and Din gives a muffled grunt against his chest. Luke chuckles a little, pressing a kiss to his sweat-damp brow, toying idly through the dark waves of Din’s hair. “You’re very nice to me.”

Din huffs a little in lieu of a reply, tucking himself further into Luke’s neck – and he’s halfway to unconsciousness before Luke speaks again.

“I guess that means I should be allowed on _all_ the missions,” Luke muses, his fingers trailing teasingly up and down Din’s spine now. “Don’t you think?” He lets that settle for a moment before he adds. “Or should you start by showing me how to fly the Crest?”

Din groans a little, shuddering despite himself. “You’re _not_ very nice to me,” he counters tiredly, utterly lacking any spite, and Luke’s laughter feels like a reward. Brushing his lips against Luke’s jaw, he continues with specific emphasis: “Go to _sleep_ , _cyar’ika_.”

“If you say so,” Luke replies indulgently, nuzzling up against him. “…But I still want a lesson tomorrow.”

Despite himself, there’s a laugh on his lips as Din fades off to unconsciousness.


End file.
